White Water Rapids

Chenyu rapped softly on the wooden frame of Hua's door, a structure that sat humbly beside Xiuqin's more ornate residence. The early morning light caressed the roof in golden whispers as dew clung like precious gems to the eaves. When the door creaked open, Hua's face bloomed with exuberance, his eyes shimmering reflections of the day's promise.

"Ready for an adventure?" Chenyu inquired, his voice carrying the subtle weight of obligation beneath its playful tone.

"Always!" Hua beamed before stepping over the threshold, leaving behind the comforting scent of jasmine incense.

Together they embarked, threading through the lush tapestry of the countryside. Emerald waves of grass rolled underfoot, cresting and dipping with the earth's gentle undulations. The waterways lay ahead, a silver vein amidst the viridescent sprawl.

"Have you ever seen such a sight?" Hua exclaimed, the thrill in his voice like wind chimes in a spirited breeze.

"Only a few times," Chenyu replied, his gaze not on the horizon but on the path they walked. He was counting steps, marking time, each footfall a whispered bargain with fate.

"Is this a usual day for you then?" Hua asked, his curiosity a bright kite soaring on the updrafts of their journey.

"No," Chenyu confessed, the word a stone in his mouth. "These tasks I do... they are Lord Hongli's bidding." His hands, hidden from Hua's view, fidgeted with the hem of his tunic—a silent symphony of unease. "I'm gathering his favor with each one."

"Ah, his favor," Hua mused, the concept floating between them like a leaf on the current. "And what will you do with such a treasure?"

Chenyu felt the question anchor into his chest, heavy and unyielding. "I haven't decided yet," he lied, for his dreams were vast oceans and Lord Hongli, a lighthouse offering guidance—or perhaps a siren's call leading to rocky demise. There was a poetry to his servitude, verses written in the ledger of ambition and the ink of necessity.

"Ah, Chengyu, you're always so mysterious," Hua teased, nudging him playfully with his shoulder. "But that's why our little adventures are so exciting, right?"

"Right," Chenyu echoed, the affirmation hollow against the thrum of his own thoughts. In truth, he yearned for the simplicity of Hua's excitement—unfettered by the chains of duty and longing.

As they neared the waterways, the air grew dense with moisture, the world around them blurring into a watercolor wash of greens and blues. It was a canvas awaiting their story, and though Chenyu walked beside Hua, their plots diverged like forks in the river ahead.

The waterways unfurled before Chenyu and Hua like the scroll of an ancient cartographer, a tapestry of liquid silver bordered by the lush embroidery of grass and reed. There, amidst the symphony of birdsong and the gentle lapping of water against the shore, stood the guard from Lord Hongli—a solitary figure in service, as unyielding as the gnarled trees that kept silent vigil over the riverbank.

"Chenyu, look!" Hua's voice pierced the tranquil moment, his finger pointing towards the small boat bobbing by the jetty. "Our chariot awaits!"

"Chariot?" Chengyu quirked an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his features. The guard, clad in the earth tones of duty, gave them a curt nod as they approached, his hands gripping the oars with practiced assurance.

"Lord Hongli wishes you safe passage," the guard intoned, voice as flat as the still waters beyond. He gestured to the boat with a sweep of his arm, the map of their route momentarily visible before he tucked it securely into his belt.

"Does he now?" Chengyu mused aloud, the words left hanging like an unfinished thought. He stepped into the vessel with a grace born of necessity, each movement a calculation of risk and reward. Beside him, Hua remained tethered to the grass.

"Hua?"

"I don't like water," he said. "I am accustomed to the will of beasts, of the horses my family raises and tends to, but water? It has no soul."

Chengyu sighed but offered a hand. Gripping it with such an intensity that made him think it would snap, Hua jumped, landing unceremoniously onto the floor, where he remained, staring up at Chengyu.

"Tell me, friend," Hua leaned toward the guard, eyes glinting with mischief, "do you ferry Lord Hongli's favored often?"

The guard's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, as if the question had coaxed a reluctant smile from behind his stoic facade. But before he could respond, Hua's laughter spilled forth—a sound as bright and clear as the water beneath them.

"Careful, Hua," Chengyu warned, though his tone carried the weight of camaraderie rather than reproach. "We wouldn't want to—"

But Hua was already caught up in the gale of his own jest, and the playful shove he aimed at Chengyu missed its mark, instead landing squarely on the guard. There was a moment of suspended animation as the man stumbled, the map slipping free from his grasp like a leaf caught in a gust.

"By the gods!" Hua gasped, horror dawning in his wide eyes.

"Guard!" Chengyu's voice sliced through the chaos, sharp as a blade. Yet, for all his command, the guard was already grappling with the disarray, composure fraying at the edges like well-worn cloth.

"Get your bearings, man!" Chengyu urged, but the rapid undercurrent of panic had found them, pulling the boat along with a will of its own. The world tilted, reality skewing as they were drawn inexorably towards the foaming jaws of the rapids.

"Chenyu—" Hua's voice was a taut thread, strained and ready to snap.

"I know," Chengyu replied, the truth of their predicament settling around him like a shroud. He reached for the guard's shoulder, attempting to anchor him to the present, to the urgency of their plight.

"Rapids ahead!" the guard finally barked, his voice regaining its authority just as the boat lurched, the first hungry wave reaching up to claim them.

Chenyu shared a glance with Hua, a silent accord passing between them.

"Brace yourselves!" Chengyu's voice pierced the roar of churning water as the boat careened into the rapids. The vessel bucked like a wild stallion, each wave a gauntlet they had to endure. Hua clung to him with a vice grip, his screams a discordant melody against the river's thunderous bass.

"Chenyu! I can't—" The terror in Hua's voice was palpable, his words cut short by another violent jerk of the boat.

"Stay with me!" he yelled back, trying to shield Hua with his own body. Amidst the chaos, Hua's hairpin gave way, releasing a cascade of raven locks that whipped around in the frenetic wind. Strands invaded Chengyu's mouth, and he spat them out with distaste, all while grappling with the relentless assault of the rapids.

Gross, he bemoaned. I can taste his shampoo.

In the midst of their struggle, his hand slipped just as the boat hit a rock, sending Hua tumbling towards the abyssal waters. "Hua!" Chengyu cried out, his heart seizing within his chest. Instinct took over; he plunged after him, driven by the unknown. If he feared the water and hailed from the plains, was there even a chance that Hua knew how to swim?

The cold embrace of the river closed around him as he reached for Hua, who flailed helplessly amidst the torrent. With a herculean effort, Chengyu secured his arms around Hua's waist, kicking towards the surface with all the strength his legs could muster.

"Come on," he muttered under his breath, every muscle straining against nature's wrath as he dragged Hua to the shore.

Gasping for air, Chengyu collapsed onto the riverbank, pulling Hua's limp form beside him. "Hua," he whispered, dread coiling in his gut. Hua lay motionless, his face a serene portrait amidst the calamity, as if he were merely adrift in a midsummer's dream. His soaked clothes clung to him, accentuating the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the delicate curve of his lips.

The world seemed to hold its breath as Chengyu leaned over, prepared to breathe life back into those still lungs. But then, just as his lips hovered a hair's breadth from Hua's, a splutter — a cough. Hua's eyes fluttered open, confusion mingling with the dregs of fear.

"Wha—?" Hua began, but Chengyu didn't wait for questions.

With a mix of relief and embarrassment heating his face, he rolled Hua back into the shallow waters, disguising his almost-kiss as an attempt to revive him fully.

"You're alive," Chengyu said, more a statement to himself than to Hua, his voice a blend of reproach and profound relief. "Don't scare me like that."

"Chenyu, I—" Hua sputtered, waterlogged and bewildered.

"Save it," Chengyu cut him off, not trusting himself to hear what Hua might say. He pulled away, forcing his focus on the guard they'd left behind.

The guard, his silhouette a crumpled heap against the verdant backdrop, stirred to consciousness. He shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs or dreams, his eyes narrowing in on the water's edge where commotion broke the stillness of the day.

"Chenyu! I... I didn't mean—"

"Quiet, Hua!" Chengyu's voice was sharp, a whip-crack over the murmur of the river. He swam with determined strokes after Hua, who flailed like a sparrow caught in a downpour, his apologies slicing through the air in desperate arcs.

"Chengyu, please, I'm so—"

"Stop apologizing and swim to the bank! I will not save you again." Chengyu demanded, though his stern tone belied the worry that clawed at his chest. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him as heavily as the waterlogged clothes clinging to his skin.

The guard, now fully upright, observed the scene unfolding before him. His duty to Lord Hongli would demand an accounting of this chaos, but for a moment he was merely a spectator to the raw urgency of survival, the spectacle of it all.

Chenyu reached Hua, grasping him by the arm and kicking towards the shore. The river, uncaring of their plight, tugged at them with greedy fingers, eager to claim them for its depths. Chengyu found himself cursing silently, not just at the river, but at the whole twisted situation that had led them here.

"Please, I can't—I can't swim," Hua confessed amidst gasps, his voice trembling like autumn leaves on the brink of descent.

"Then hold on to me." Chengyu's heart raced, pumping adrenaline and a fierce protectiveness that surprised him. It was a sensation that called forth memories of shared childhood escapades, of laughter ringing through the fields that bordered their homes.

"Sorry, sorry," Hua continued, his words muffled by water and fear.

"Enough, Hua." The admonishment came softer this time, tempered by an inexplicable ache within Chengyu. In another life, perhaps they might have waded through calmer waters. But fate, it seemed, had other plans for them.

The guard, regaining his composure, stepped nearer to the riverbank, ready to offer assistance or reprimand as the situation demanded. Yet his gaze lingered on Chengyu, tracing the lines of concern etched upon his face, wondering at the depth of emotion that could drive a man to such lengths for his neighbor.

"Can you stand?" Chengyu asked, releasing Hua only when they were in shallower waters.

"Yes, I think so," replied Hua, his legs unsteady beneath him, like fresh shoots struggling to bear weight.

"Good." Chengyu nodded, though his mind was awash with questions without answers. Why did Hua's vulnerability strike him so deeply? When had the lines of their friendship blurred into something more complex, more confusing?

"Chenyu, I owe you my life," Hua said earnestly, wringing water from his sleeves.

"You and half the village," Chengyu replied curtly, turning away to hide the storm of thoughts raging inside him. "It's not a big deal. Let's just go back. We'll explain to the guard, then make our way to the village."

"Of course," Hua agreed, but the tremor in his voice suggested that more than just the river had shaken him.

As they trudged back to solid ground, Chengyu couldn't shake the feeling that the rapids they'd faced were but a prelude to even greater turbulence ahead. And deep down, where he dared not look too closely, he wondered if he might one day willingly dive into those treacherous waters again.